Wait
by DamnI'mRandom
Summary: It seemed to John that it would be better to wait, until their fragile friendship became as strong as it had been before. Post-Reichenbach. Johnlock.
1. Those Awkward Silences

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. Everything belongs to the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC._

...

The melancholy music filled John's heart, taking him along with its tidal wave of emotion. It had been so long since he'd heard Sherlock play – his friend usually played the violin when he was out. He knew because he'd talked to Mrs Hudson.

The fall had crippled them both, mentally and physically. John's limp had made a strong comeback and it had made life very difficult for him. As, of course, had his best friend's 'death'.

Sherlock, after his return, was withdrawn, pensive. He hardly spoke and ate and slept even less. If John fell deeply asleep (a rare occurrence), and woke early the next morning, he would see Sherlock pacing the living room, not saying a word, his brow furrowed. He ate just enough to keep him alive, and only when John begged him to. Sleep came little and far in between.

Sherlock spent most of his time writing furiously in a small black moleskine notebook. Writing music? Recording his many experiments? John didn't know, and let Sherlock have his privacy by not asking.

Something had changed between them after the fall. Gone was the easy friendship, the almost telepathic connection they'd had. It had instead been replaced by long, awkward silences which both of them were hesitant to break.

It was possible that Sherlock hadn't noticed that he was in the room – or in the house – because he was so engrossed in his music, swaying gently with the flow of the violin. It made John's heart leap giddily. He'd always loved it when Sherlock played the violin – it always made him fall a little more in love with the man. This was the closest to calm that he'd seen Sherlock after the fall. He smiled gently and padded over to his armchair, careful not to make a sound.

He closed his eyes, allowing himself to let his thought turn unbidden to the many days he'd spent without Sherlock by his side – so many memories that brought tears to his eyes.

It had hurt – of course it had hurt. There were so many things he'd wanted to tell Sherlock before he'd died, so many things. Sherlock was back, but things could never go back to being the way they were.

He didn't realise the music had faded away softly until he sensed Sherlock kneeling silently next to him. He could always tell when Sherlock was nearby, because his flatmate had that distinct _scent_ about him – he knew it sounded animalistic, but it was true. Sherlock smelled like lemongrass soap and chemicals and _freedom_ – it was liberating from the dull city scents of everyday.

He was embarrassed to find that tears had streaked down his face, and that Sherlock was staring at him with a queer expression on his face because of it.

'John.'

Sherlock had never seen him cry, never seen him have one of his terrible, exhausting nightmares, never had to wake up because he'd screamed so loud probably the whole street had heard…. He chuckled weakly.

'I'm fine, Sherlock. Just… thinking.' And at _thinking_ a dark shadow crossed his friend's eyes, revealing just how damaged all those years away from home had made him. John had to wrench his eyes away from Sherlock's beautiful face. It was enchanting. It also made him very sad, as he'd never seen Sherlock look so old. He'd never _thought_ he'd see Sherlock look old.

John lifted his hand to wipe away the offending tears but was stopped as Sherlock wiped them gently away before he could even try.

'Why were you crying?' Sherlock asked quietly, all the while holding John's gaze with his own intense stare.

'I didn't mean to. I just… what you played was beautiful, Sherlock. I haven't heard you play in so long.'

'Why were you crying?'

'Like I said, I was just thinking.'

'About the past.'

'Yes.'

Sherlock seemed to be satisfied with that answer. He didn't, however, seem to want to look away, and so John gazed back at him, his resolve crumbling bit by tiny bit, by tiny bit. All he wanted to do in that moment, all he'd ever wanted to do since he'd met Sherlock Holmes, was grab this wonderful man's face in his hands and kiss him hard. Kiss him like he'd never been kissed before.

But then he thought about all those moments when Sherlock had shown vulnerability, and it was when it came to matters like these. Their renewed friendship was still too fragile to be disturbed in such a drastic manner. They weren't ready for it yet. Sherlock wasn't ready for it yet.

And what if Sherlock didn't feel the same way that he did? Then it'd just be awkward between them for a very long time. Their friendship would never be the same – it was already fractured, as it were, and him kissing Sherlock if his friend didn't feel the same way would do their friendship irreparable damage. He didn't want that.

With Sherlock's hold on him intensifying by the second, John had no option but to shy away from his green, green eyes. He couldn't look back anymore.

'I should, erm, get-get to bed. It's been a long, long day, and I'm, uh, really tired.' _Yeah, that's how you get out of that situation, Watson._

Sherlock said nothing. John looked at him out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge his reaction. Sherlock's face remained impassive, but he could see a tiny, almost hidden sliver of disappointment in his friend's eyes.

Trying not to think about it, John trudged heavily up the stairs to his room, knowing that it was going to be yet another of those nights when he wasn't going to get any sleep at all.

He should've just kissed him.

...

_Thoughts?_


	2. Not Letting it Show

_Hello__ and welcome to chapter 2! This is essentially the same as chapter one, except for the fact that it's been told from Sherlock's point of view. And apart from the dialogue, the content is differing._

_Have you ever looked at your writing and just thought vaguely, 'This is shit.' ? Because I do that. Every. Single. Day. Story of my life._

_You can only hope for so much, tho._

…

The thing was, Sherlock _had _noticed that John had come into the room, because no matter how hard he tried, John would never be silent to Sherlock. Sherlock noticed everything about his flatmate – from the way he looked each day to the way he talked, to the way he smelled to the way he walked. He had never observed anything so obsessively as he observed John Watson, and this was crossing even his own limits.

So he'd played this particular piece especially for John, because he was a very observant man and knew that John loved it when he played the violin. Every beautiful piece he composed and played, he did it for John. Because John gave him a _reason_ to _keep composing_.

Yes, the fall had affected him greatly. Staying away from his only friend, the only person who'd been able to make a house feel like a _home_ for him, even if it was for his own safety, had given the word _bereavement_ its entirely accurate meaning. He'd travelled all over Europe, from Latvia to Armenia and even Norway and sunny Iberia, but never had he felt _at ease._ 'At ease' was a feeling Sherlock associated only with John, as was home and _tea_.

(The tea in Yerevan, the capital city of Armenia, had been far too strong for his liking, and he had given up tea entirely for those three years, because no-one could make tea the way John Watson made it.)

And so the countdown had begun.

_Three pawns to go from Moriarty's chess board._

_Two to go._

And finally, Sebastian Moran.

The sense of relief he'd felt at Sebastian Moran's death had disgusted him. He'd never thought that he would feel relief, let alone happiness, at having killed another human being. It plagued him every single night, even though he justified to himself each time that they had been out to kill his family, the people he cared about the most, and that he had been right in killing them to get rid of that threat. That was why, despite John's prompting, he could not bring himself to talk about the three years that he had been away, not without wanting to throw up each time he brought up a person he had killed.

_John was a soldier,_ his mind soothed. _John will understand._

_What if I just drive him away?_ his mind reasoned.

This battle raged on in his mind day after day. It had been ever since his return two months ago.

Most of all, John conquered his mind. Even if he tried to flee to his Mind palace, John just wouldn't _leave him alone_. The John Dilemma kept him up each night.

So when John Watson sat in his armchair with tears streaming down his face, Sherlock was concerned. Naturally. He stopped his playing at once and went over to his friend.

It was a while before John's eyes fluttered open, but Sherlock was just content in kneeling next to John, drinking in his presence. He still couldn't get over the fact that despite all that he had been through, this _amazing_ man had had chosen to trust in _him_ and make him a part of his life.

John thought Sherlock had never seen him when those nightmares wracked him, but Sherlock was there each time, standing quietly in the shadows, restraining himself from going over to the bed and just holding John in his arms until the nightmare subsided, like Mycroft had done to him when he was little and impressionable. No matter what his faults, his brother had actually helped and had been a tender, caring pillar of support until Sherlock turned thirteen, when Mycroft went to work for the British government and became a snob like all the rest of them. He had to watch as John twisted and thrashed in his sheets in the throe of yet another bad dream. It pained Sherlock that for once, when he wanted to help, he was unable to and had to let his friend suffer alone.

'John,' he ventured currently, and John looked blankly back at him for a moment.

'I'm fine, Sherlock. Just… thinking,' John answered, chuckling weakly. He seemed embarrassed. For what?

_Thinking _brought back so many memories of those three years away from 221B, Baker Street, and how much he'd thought of returning home to John and Mrs Hudson. Had his will really been that weak? He looked at John again and realised why. He lifted his hand unconsciously to wipe away John's tears before the latter could do so himself, and once he realised what he'd done, he glanced at John to catch his reaction.

'Why were you crying?' he asked, half afraid of the answer.

John glanced down at his lap and Sherlock quickly snatched his hand away from John's, which was lightly curled around his own.

'I didn't mean to. I just… what you played was beautiful, Sherlock, I haven't heard you play in so long.'

That was hardly an answer. John was merely evading the question. Sherlock frowned.

'Why were you crying?' he asked again, this time his tone signalling firmness.

'Like I said, I was thinking.'

'About the past.'

'Yes.'

Ah. Well. He'd been afraid of _that_ answer. He couldn't deny that John had probably been affected more than him in the three years he hadn't been around… but it had been too much to hope. John hid his emotions well. _He was a soldier, remember?_ his mind reminded him.

And Sherlock found himself looking at John Watson in an entirely different light – he saw his friend, who had almost died protecting _him_ so many times. He saw a brave soldier who was willing to hide his own feelings in order to comfort others. He saw the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

But John didn't want that, did he? He would want a girlfriend and then marriage and kids. He hoped John would prove him wrong once again, like he did so often.

John looked away from his intense stare and cleared his throat loudly.

'I should, erm, get-get to bed. I's been a long, long day, and I'm, uh, really tired.'

_Well, yes, of course. Yes, okay, John._ Sherlock sighed internally. So he'd been proven correct, and he'd never felt worse about it. He tried not to let it show as John got up to go to his bedroom upstairs.

He should've just kissed John when he'd had the chance, to hell with the consequences.

Sixth straight day without sleep? He could manage that.

…

_Thoughts?_


	3. The Reward, For Those Who Waited

_Hello__ and welcome to the last chapter of this story._

_This story was really, __really__ clichéd. But I enjoyed writing every word. I told my friend (the one that prompted me to write it) this, but she… well, let's just say she's stubborn. And very, __very__ insistent. _

_A big __thank you__ to all those that reviewed/favourite/followed._

_I apologise beforehand for the shortness of this chapter. _

_This story was actually inspired by the lovely song __Wait__ by M83, as well as the cover for this story. _

_I __hate__ writers' block. My advice? Never have it. Never._

…

The bottom step creaked as John Watson made his way up the stairs, coming back home after a long day's work at the local hospital.

He, thankfully, hadn't been caught in the worst of the storm that was brewing, and had reached home only as it had begun to worsen. He shrugged his jacket off and hung it on the coat hook outside the door.

John sighed heavily as he realised that there was no light in the house – perhaps Sherlock preferred it that way? There was no telling what a bored, half-starved, sleep-deprived Sherlock Holmes did in his absence daily, and he didn't care enough to want to find out.

Sherlock was playing the violin again, and the only light in the flat came from the two huge, narrow windows with the moonlight filtering through them. John looked around and saw that not even a single light was on, even the ones that normally were.

_Oh, power outage, then,_ John assessed.

Sherlock stopped his violin-playing at once when he heard someone come into the living room. Realising that it was John, noticeable by his distinct after-work, _I'm-so-tired-so-very-tired_ shuffle, he made his way around the living room, treading delicately, trying not to step on the books lying on the floor.

'Sherlock,' John called, making his own way towards Sherlock, not knowing that Sherlock was headed towards him.

'John,' came the terse reply.

The entire room looked ghostly in the minimal light, the skull lending an eerie glow as the moonlight was reflected off its pale, shiny surface.

'Sher – ' he stopped short as he collided head-on with something lean, warm and solid. A violin-wielding Sherlock Holmes.

'John.'

Sherlock turned around to face John, and his breath caught. They were so close he could trace the laughter lines around John's clouded eyes. He let out a shaky breath.

'Sherlock.' John's breath ghosted over his neck. He shivered ever-so-slightly.

'John,' he breathed back.

'There was a-a power outage,' he stammered rather unnecessarily. There was something about John Watson that rendered him _stupid_ – he did precisely that which he despised in others when John was in close proximity.

'I gathered.' Sherlock could hear the amusement in his voice.

'I wasn't able to find the candles.'

'Okay.'

'Where d'you keep the candles, John?'

'Somewhere far out of your curious, experimenting reach. Somewhere that's safe for the candles.'

'Ha-ha.'

There was a comfortable silence that rankled of _before the fall_, most unlike the one they'd shared a few days ago. They stood there for a while, enjoying the feeling of being so close to each other – not touching, but a far more intimate kind of _close_. The rain poured down steadily in sheets, indicating that the storm had reached its apex. The sudden clap of thunder after a rather quiet few minutes made both detective and blogger jump – right into each other's arms. Sherlock found himself unexpectedly – but pleasurably – liking this scenario more and more.

'I'm sorry about the candles, John,' he whispered to his blogger.

'We can make it work this way,' John whispered back, smiling slightly and looping one hand round Sherlock's neck and fisting a bit of the latter's shirt in the other. He tugged Sherlock close to him, the violin poking him at an awkward angle, but he didn't care. _Oh, _he didn't care at all. The storm raged on, and their lips met just as the lightning struck.

Sherlock grinned back and positioned his lips to John's feather-soft ones, giving in to the kiss, surrendering at last to the desire he felt, to the longing he'd kept hidden for so long, without realising that the one he loved had been as oblivious to his feeling as Sherlock had been to John's.

As for that big, bulky brain/hard-drive of his – well, this was one stormy night he was unlikely to forget.

He didn't see why he'd waited so long if this was what he got in return.

Being patient hadn't got him anywhere before – but this was his sweet, sweet reward for waiting.

…

**FIN.**

_Thoughts?_


End file.
